Since You've Been Gone (35 page)

Grace Haven Nursing Home was only two miles away from Matilda's house. When she had first tearfully signed the papers to place her father in the home, she'd felt as if it were two hundred miles away. They had lived together all her life; and although he had a phone in his room and they talked at least once during each day and she visited on Sunday evenings, the closeness seemed mechanical and forced. After two years of it, though, Matilda had grown used to his absence. He was still alive. He was still lucid at least half the time. But if what the nurse had said tonight was true, this could be the beginning of the end of those lucid times. Matilda could be losing her father in all but body.

Before Matilda turned off her car ignition, she glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Twelve forty-five. Usually her father was asleep by ten. What on earth had set him off after midnight? It couldn't have been something he'd seen on television. Perhaps a dream.

The Grace Haven parking lot was behind the facility and
nearly deserted at this time, with only staff members' cars parked close to the building. No one came visiting at nearly one in the morning. Matilda knew no one would care if she parked in one of the staff spots, but she had never been one to break rules. So she parked where she always did, off to the right at the edge of the lot near a stand of evergreens the staff lavishly decorated every Christmas.

Matilda stepped out of the car, pushed down the lock button, and closed the door. She slung her large purse over her shoulder, straightened her sweater, and ran a hand through her hair.

“Miss Vinson?”

“Yes?” she said absently, jerking her hands down from her hair. “I'm just on my way inside.”

“I'm afraid not.”

An arm shot around the right side of her neck so fast she didn't even get out a gasp. The arm jerked tight, the elbow just left of her Adam's apple, the bicep pushing into the area of her vocal cords.

“Wha—” she managed before someone pulled back her head. She saw the topa of the towering evergreens and the dark shape of a bird lighting on a top branch. The bird seemed to be watching with interest.

“You always did talk too much, didn't you? Skeeter watching, you talking. What a pair. You should have married him, Miss Vinson. He was just about the best you could do.”

So this was the person who had killed Skeeter, Matilda thought with an odd numbness. The person whose arm was around her throat had stuck an ice pick in Skeeter's eye because of something Skeeter hadn't really seen. But she
had
seen something. She knew. And there was no use pretending she didn't know. Even if she'd had the breath, her tone would have betrayed her. Matilda had never been a good liar.

“Well, let's get this over with.” Here there was a little
snicker. “I know how you hate to waste time. Busy, busy, busy, that's our Matilda.”

An arm crossed over the top of her head, the hand splayed and firmly planted above her right ear. She didn't even try to struggle. She felt like a rabbit brought down by a wolf, helpless, in shock. But unlike the rabbit, she wouldn't squeal. No, Matilda Vinson would go out with dignity.

But as one arm jerked right and the other jerked left, breaking her slender neck, with a decisive, sickening snap of bone, she rasped out one last word:

“Daddy.”

THURSDAY
, 1:20
A.M.

Suzanne crept into Rebecca's room as soon as Rebecca returned. “How's Frank?” she asked meekly.

“You'd know if you'd gone to the hospital with him.” Rebecca didn't look at her mother. She removed her earrings, then her contacts. “It doesn't appear that he had a heart attack. His EKG is erratic. Not all the tests are back so he has to stay, but he's resting comfortably, as they say. I didn't get to see him. They wanted him to stay quiet and sleep.”

“Then you think he's going to be all right?”

“I'm not a doctor, Mother,” Rebecca said tightly. “Why don't you get dressed, go to the hospital tomorrow, and consult with one? Frank
is
your husband.”

Suzanne sat down on the bed. “You know why I didn't go this evening. It's obvious I've been drinking. What would people say?”

“I have news, Mother. People already know you spend half your time drunk.” Suzanne winced. “I'm sorry. That was cruel. But it's true.”

“I know it.” Suzanne's voice was weak. “I try to pretend no one knows the shape I'm in, but it's hard to hide. That's why I rarely go out.” She paused. “I was so frightened this evening, Rebecca. I thought Frank just had a touch of flu. Or maybe he just didn't want to sleep in the same bed with me. He's having an affair, you know.”

“Oh, Mother!” Rebecca whirled away from the vanity mirror. “For God's sake, do you have to start this paranoid nonsense
now?”

“It isn't paranoia,” Suzanne said calmly. “It's true. And it's all right. Well, it isn't all right, but I certainly understand it. I haven't been a real wife to him for along time.
He's a charming, attractive man. Naturally he'd look for female company.”

Suzanne was too calm to be spinning a fantasy. She was clearly telling something she knew to be true and had accepted. “Who is the woman?” Rebecca asked.

“I don't know. He's very discreet, bless him. Maybe it's someone from work.”

Sonia's mother. Suddenly Rebecca was sure Frank's “lover” was Mrs. Ellis. She seemed to have confided a lot in him about Sonia and Randy. He said she'd been looking better and acting happier lately. He spoke glowingly of her. He hadn't been the least concerned when she hadn't really been at choir practice during Sonia's attack and Cory couldn't find her afterward. He wasn't surprised by her lie or worried about her true whereabouts because he'd known where she was. After all, he'd been gone earlier in the evening, too. They'd probably been together and she'd stayed wherever they met until choir practice was supposed to be over. He'd returned home earlier and received the call from the hospital.

Rebecca wanted to be outraged for her mother, but she couldn't. She couldn't even be disappointed in Frank. She had never felt that he was truly in love with Suzanne. He had married her because of fondness for her and obligation to his best friend. And she'd made him a poor wife. Still, he had conducted himself with patience and dignity, but he couldn't help being a man, needing someone for attention and affection.

“Affair or no affair, I think you should go to the hospital tomorrow,” Rebecca said gently. “You are Frank's wife. He's been good to you and to this family—”

“Oh, I know!” Suzanne said fervently. She might have been intoxicated earlier in the evening, but she was almost completely sober now. “I'm going to do better, Rebecca. I know you've heard that before. I've even tried before, but I've never felt this much resolve. I owe it to everyone, especially to Frank.” She smiled almost shyly. “And to you. No matter what you think, no matter how I've acted, I've
always loved you, Rebecca. And I'll prove it to you. Those aren't hollow promises. I
swear
to do better.”

Rebecca knew most alcoholics thought they could handle their problem by themselves. She knew they all swore to do better and usually failed. Still, Rebecca didn't remember ever seeing such flinty earnestness in Suzanne's eyes. In spite of Frank's heart problems, in spite of Todd's abduction, Rebecca went to bed feeling more settled about her mother than she had since before her father died, he'd always known she longed for her mother's love. She just hadn't known how much.

She fell promptly to sleep around midnight. She didn't remember dreaming, although she knew she had, but at four in the morning she sat straight up in bed, her eyes open, perspiration drenching her dainty cotton nightgown; the familiarity of her bedroom vanished as she realized her mind had taken her to another place, a cold and frightening place, a place that did not exist except in her dreams.

His hands and feet were manacled, arms behind his body. He lay on his abdomen on a series of dusty cushions—he could feel the breaks between them. Three. A couch. An old couch that had gotten wet and mildewed. The smell was faintly nauseating. Still, his stomach roared with hunger and his dry mouth longed for water, no matter how foul. His throat hurt. His lungs felt constricted. He knew he was in a cabin and it was late October. There was no heat in the cabin, and the nights dropped into the forties and thirties. He had only a thin wool blanket for warmth.

At first he'd tried to get free whenever he was left alone. He'd scuffled and slithered on the floor, and ran his head into walls, until finally he was one mass of sore and bleeding injuries. Even then his will hadn't died, but his body wouldn't cooperate anymore. He shivered uncontrollably through the nights and in the mornings, he was just too tired, too spent, to try much of anything. Then his captor had decided to feed him a decent meal and he'd eaten as much as his shrunken stomach could hold. Later that night
when he was alone he'd thrown up. Gagged, he had thrown up.

“You don't look too good. You feel all right?”

He shook his head. “Water,” he croaked.

A long pause. He thought his request was going to be denied. Then arms lifted the top half of his body, twisting him at the waist, letting his back fall against the couch. The blindfold was tight and he had the feeling he'd never see right again, as if the eyeballs had been pushed back too far for too long. Someone took the gag off and water poured into his mouth.

“Drink.”

The water was warm, musty. Probably rusty if he could see it. Rusty. His mind filled with images of the dog and he felt tears run into the material of the blindfold. If only Rusty could find him.

He choked. Water poured down his chin onto his chest. “Damn it, now you're wasting it and there's not that much.”

But he couldn't stop choking. And with each cough, he felt mucous rise in his throat. Thick gobs of it spewed from his mouth, landing on his chest.

“Jeez!” his captor exclaimed. “That's gross!” Then after a moment, the person asked, “You got a cold or something?”

This morning the tightness in his chest had started, causing him to grow breathless after the least exertion. And then the awful cough that seemed to be bringing up his lungs. Was it possible to cough up your lungs? Maybe pieces? If you did, would the pieces grow back? Oh God, he was so miserable.

The strong hands retied his gag, only looser this time “so you can cough easier,” and pushed him back on the couch. “I'm gonna get you some cough syrup. You'll be okay. It's all gonna be okay. It has to be.”

But as the door closed behind his captor, Jonnie knew it wasn't going to be okay. Sometime in the deepest, coldest part of last night, the last bit of hope had died in him and he'd known he'd never see home again. Maybe he would
be buried in the woods and no one would ever find him. Maybe he would be stored in the awful black Ryan mausoleum that had always scared the wits out of him.

Rebecca came back to herself and her breath labored in her chest. She coughed, loudly and raggedly, just as Jonnie had in her vision, but nothing had come from her lungs. Of course not. The autopsy had shown that during his capture he'd vomited, but no one had removed his gag so some of the vomit had rolled back into his lungs, causing aspiration pneumonia. Even if he'd been found the day before someone had bashed in his skull, he probably could not have been saved.

And now, because of her vision, she knew he had realized death was inevitable. All of these years she'd prayed he'd kept hope until the last, brutal minute. But he hadn't. He was a smart boy. He'd guessed the inescapable.

After a vision, Rebecca always felt shaken, her equilibrium unreliable, her mental focus nonexistent. But today was different. Her senses thrummed. Her body longed for action. It was only five, still dark outside, but she could not force herself to lie in bed, waiting even for light. She flung back the covers, splashed water on her face in the bathroom, threw on a robe, and went downstairs.

The kitchen was empty and seemed completely unfamiliar without Betty's presence or the smell of cooking. At least of coffee. That's what she needed. A good strong cup of coffee. In her wired mental state, decaf probably would've been best, but she craved caffeine, no matter what the results. She filled the coffeemaker, flipped it on, then walked through the house to the front in search of the morning newspaper. She turned on the porch light, unlocked the double doors, swung them open, and gasped.

On the walkway lay the wilted remains of the roses she'd left at the mausoleum yesterday, the golden script of “Get Well Soon” glittering under the light.

Within fifteen minutes Rebecca, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, had pulled the red Thunderbird out of the driveway. She carried a thermal cup of coffee and Sean sat in the bucket seat across from her.

“Twice I've envisioned Jonnie at the mausoleum,” she chattered in her nervousness to the dog. “Yesterday I was there. I left
those
flowers, Sean. Not some
like
them.
Those,
with that ridiculous message.” Her eyes filled with tears. “What in the name of God is he trying to tell me?”

After finding the flowers, Rebecca had run back to the kitchen and headed for the Peg-Board. Even here Betty's sense of order reigned. The Peg-Board measured nearly three feet by two feet and hung at eye level. Rebecca scanned the dozens of sets of keys hanging from it, all carefully labeled. Keys and spares to every car. Keys and spares to-every door on the property. Keys to Esther's house. Keys to crucial offices at Grace Healthcare. Finally, when she was ready to scream, she spotted them: Mausoleum Keys.

After throwing on clothes, Rebecca looked at Sean. She wasn't afraid to go alone to the cemetery in the day, but in the semidarkness she wasn't going without her protector. He displayed his usual excitement as soon as she attached his leash.